The Talent of Moving Feet

Kenyan Women Having it All

At Kenya’s Kamariny Stadium in the mid-1980’s a local track race was about to begin. An elderly male race official strode across the starting line of the women’s distance race, asking the loaded question, "Are you married?" Each woman who answered affirmatively was immediately ejected from the competition.

As far as women’s rights are concerned, present day Kenya is still lost in the dark ages: The liberating march has yet to happen. Much has changed since that day at Kamariny Stadium, but this change has been won the hard way: through sacrifice, diligence and determination. While the women of Kenya still face a long and arduous struggle for equality in the athletic world, they now have world class results to back up their demands for equal treatment, thanks to the emergence of several dominant female runners.

A Woman’s Place

The hot fireball of the equatorial sun boils like oil dancing in a frying pan. The thin air holds the distinct taste of red, choking dry dust, and the hill ahead is a full thirteen miles of pure strain and sweat. It looms above, reaching an altitude of over 10,000 feet. Facing the hill is an athlete, not dressed to breath in the afternoon heat, but to cover all the flesh from the sun.

There are thousands of understandable reasons to quit this workout. Our athlete is a female and, as such, she gains one more. As she runs past a group of idle men, they scream scoldingly at her: "You should be at home! A woman of your age should be ashamed! Running is for school children!"

Sally Barsosio sits above the town of Kipkabus recalling this event. She looks over the Rift Valley with a frown. She has heard a thousand similar insults. "A woman’s place…" She smiles and doesn’t complete her sentence. I believe that she has drifted away to a favorite mental space—perhaps to a stadium in Athens, Greece, where, as a teenager, she won the 10,000m World Championship.

Times are changing. Record books and stats show a staggering rise in the dominance of African women in distance events—a territory long dominated by European and Asian women. There is now a group of African women: The talent of moving feet. But why have these talented women taken so much longer than the Kenyan men to emerge as dominant figures on the international running stage?

Brother Colm O’Connell, a prolific running coach and a man who has seen a slow change in the social climate during his 25-years in Kenya, points towards social customs and unwavering expectations as reasons for the delay. For one, the school system that has helped develop and promote so many male stars didn’t have a place for women until recently.

In addition, most Kenyan men are not supportive of their wives trying to establish themselves in professional running. "The men don’t want a wife training, they want a family woman," O’Connell explains. According to 2:11 marathoner Jacob Losian, "I would never have a runner for a wife. I want my wife to stay at home and look after our children."

Distance runner Hosea Kogo is an exception, but he only goes so far. Kogo’s wife, Lydia Cheromei, has earned a handsome living off the international running circuit over the past ten years. For his part, Kogo usually runs well in Kenyan competitions, yet he makes little headway on the international moneymaking scene. When I asked Kogo why he didn’t stay in Kenya and "attend to the necessary family affairs," letting his wife compete in Europe, he blurted, "What are you doing in Africa? Go home, White Man!"

The average Kenyan female is usually married before the age of fifteen. A woman’s social role or career expectations extend no further than the confines of the family shamba, or land plot. After marriage a woman is expected to tend to the farm, keep house and propagate—all simultaneously! Kenyan women recognize that this is socially unjust, but Kenya is still largely a nation where people can’t afford the luxury of dreaming—they simply act to survive.

Three Dreamers

In 1995 three young women sat in the gardens of the St. Patrick’s High School in Iten, Kenya, relaxing after a five mile tempo run. They were talking about their future; dreams of blossoming running careers, international travel...and sympathetic husbands.

The year before, in New York City, Tegla Loroupe became the first African woman to win a major international marathon, paving the way for future dreamers. For Tegla, however, marriage would never be in her dreams or plans, for fear that it would stifle her running life, particularly if she were to wed a Kenyan.

Seven years later each of the women has reached the absolute pinnacle of their sport, and each has married. Each relationship is different, yet each supports and enhances the athlete’s life on and off the race course. Most importantly, all three still have dreams they wish to fulfill, dreams that a decade before would have been impossible.

The Simba

Lornah Kiplagat’s nickname in the Rift Valley is The Simba, or Lion, in reference to her training ethic. Her training methods reveal nothing revolutionary: simply a lot of work at threshold level, and a total workload only a lion could handle.

Known to the athletic community by her first name because of both her fame, and to avoid confusion with other runners named Kiplagat, Lornah was born 28 years ago outside of a small village called Kipkabus on the escarpment of the Great Rift Valley where her family farmed a 600-acre plot of land. Lornah ran the five kilometers to school twice daily (she returned home for lunch each day) simply because she loved to run. Neither she, nor her family, ever dreamed that Lornah would become a world class runner, nor that she’d marry a Dutch man.

According to Lornah’s mother, "I wanted the best for Lornah. I did not mind what she would do, as long as she was doing her best." For a mother whose entire world revolved around a small village and who had never seen the outside world, it was impossible to envision her daughter earning a living through running.

A world’s best time for the 20K, international marathon wins on three different continents, and two of the eight fastest half marathons in history have cemented Lornah’s name in the annals of distance running history. But her path in athletics nearly came to a grinding halt in Germany in 1997.

Dejected and disillusioned from the political back-stabbing at a German training camp, Lornah wanted to return to Kenya and retire to her family shamba, "I thought ‘If this is athletics, then let me leave it!’ Better just to go home. I did not get support in Kenya, or in Europe." Luckily, this was when she met her future husband, Pieter Langerhorst, through her connections at the shoe company, Saucony.

Pieter recalls their first interactions, "We’d send her a pair of Saucony socks and receive a thank you letter!" A simple, yet unheard of, sign of appreciation for something that the developed world takes for granted.

After traveling together throughout Africa and Europe, Lornah moved in with Pieter and her life immediately improved. Pieter, himself a successful former triathlete, has always been understanding and supportive of Lornah’s athletic career. At each important juncture Pieter has been there to aid, assure and assist his wife.

Langerhorst, athletic and still capable of running a good 10K, also coaches and manages several other international runners (including Christopher Cheboiboch, the 2002 Boston Marathon runner-up). In addition, he continues to serve as a consultant for Saucony and directs the business side of the running camp that he and Lornah built in Iten in 1999.

Supported primarily through Lornah’s athletic winnings, the camp focuses on training and supporting promising young women. During construction, their funds gave out. "Do not worry, something will come," she told the bank manager. Lornah’s 2:22 personal marathon record at the 2000 Chicago Marathon brought in enough money to complete the camp.

"I do not expect to harvest anything from my investment," Lornah explains to people who asked where returns will come from. "I came into this sport with nothing, so how can I ever lose?" she asks.

Standing on the plot of land they purchased for their future home, the couple reflect on the amazing circumstances that brought them together. Lornah looks at her husband and bursts into an infectious laughter that Pieter joins—neither seems capable of controlling their sensibility. Looking at this couple, one cannot help but see how a congenial and mutually supportive relationship can build two marvelous careers.

The Quiet Champion

Joyce Chepchumba doesn’t have the inflated ego that one would expect from a world class marathoner. She runs down New York’s Seventh Avenue talking about her holiday plans, excited about her trip to the Portuguese coast. A group of visiting German runners fall like dominoes down the sidewalk as they stare at Joyce. "Tegla’s sister!" I hear them exclaim, mistakenly, moments before collapsing. Chepchumba isn’t aware of the commotion she causes; her self-image is that of a runner, not a celebrity. Little in the demeanor of this five-foot package of smiles, loved by race directors and fellow athletes around the world, suggests the gritty champion with wins at London, Chicago and Tokyo, as well as an Olympic medal.

More congruent with her image is the woman who is the mother of Collins and the wife of fellow Kenyan Aaron Kitur. Chepchumba’s interests are her family and reading; she seems rather nonchalant about the fact that she consistently runs at a world-class level.

Her childhood was, in her words, "nothing special." Chepchumba was an average student who excelled at sports. Luckily, she was encouraged to run in school, which ultimately led to her migration to Germany, where she spends most of the year, training with Volker Wagner, who also coaches Loroupe, though the two rarely run together.

Aaron’s involvement with Joyce the athlete is minimal, albeit supportive. A former national long jumper, he currently works as a clerk for the local post office. Even when discussing athletics with Aaron, Joyce is not the topic of conversation. Aaron seems far more interested in spotlighting the conversation on a local running club he recently formed to help some local men reach the international level.

When I stubbornly steer the conversation onto Chepchumba the marathoner, Kitur politely changes the subject, with no time for my formulaic ideas, "No. I am glad that Joyce is running, I don’t feel any pressure from the other Kenyan men."

Kitur is not engaging in surface talk; the pervasive norm in Kenyan society has always been that Kitur should be the breadwinner. In turn, his wife should remain at home with their son. In this relationship, Chepchumba’s cousin helps with the household chores and the care of Collins, who boards away from home during the school term.

What helps in the Chepchumba/Kitur relationship is that their social circle falls inside a group of contemporary world class athletes and family. The Kenyan community finds Chepchumba’s absence from her homeland strange, but her low key behavior while in Nakuru is so underplayed for a sports star that her family is sheltered from social scorn.

"Most of the time I’m relaxing in Kenya and visiting friends," Chepchumba says about her brief visits home. "I try to see my mother as much as possible." Their neighbors on the dusty dirt path—apart from those who run sub-28 minute 10K’s—around their residence seem oblivious to Joyce’s fame.

Kitur is unique among Kenyan men in allowing Chepchumba to live the life she does, and maintaining their relationship with such scant interconnection. Understated and often underrated, Chepchumba has achieved both international fame and domestic tranquility.

The Saint

Catherine Ndereba, one of the most exciting names to hit the road racing scene in the last decade, has carved out a superstar status not seen since Loroupe faded from the running limelight. She is known simply as Catherine, or, often, Catherine the Great, when referring to her athletic prowess. Her "off-road" persona is as pleasant as her performances are powerful. At press conferences or personal encounters, she appears no more than an almost embarrassingly quiet, deeply religious wife and mother.

Hailing from the town of Nyeri in the Central region of Kenya (from the Kikuyu tribe), Catherine was not an outstanding junior athlete. She ran well in school and impressed her teachers, but the path to stardom came from a solid work ethic. She seems to have avoided much of the negative response that others of her generation report. "People told me I ran too much, but I was encouraged to run," Catherine recalls.

Motivation can lead to greatness with the right elements, and when Catherine’s husband, Anthony Maina, found his Cleopatra it was Catherine who began to shine. After settling into a stable family life in 1996, Catherine’s professional life flourished.

With the exception of 1997, when she stayed in Kenya and off the race circuit for the birth of her daughter, Jane, Catherine has ranked at the top of women road racers on the U.S. circuit for five years, won Boston and Chicago twice each, and now holds the world marathon record—an astounding 2:18:47.

At a cross country race in Kenya, Catherine praises the people around her for her running success. "I have a good team," she says. It is an understatement. On that team are an agent, Lisa Buster, who respects her wishes while guiding her career, a coach, El-Mostafa Nechadi, a 2:10 marathoner, and her husband, whom she met through her job with the prison system a decade ago.

Anthony Maina, along with their household maid, helps raise their daughter so that his wife can concentrate on the arduous task of running even faster. Or, as Catherine explains when asked about his absence at the cross country race, "he helps with the household chores."

It is like saying today the grass is blue. It is very unusual in Kenya to hear of such conduct: A man supporting a woman’s career? And for Maina to be at home instead of pursuing his own career—this is untried territory. Unlike Langerhorst and Kitur, who have many projects of their own, Maina’s focus is centered solely on Catherine. "We are a team together," Catherine says, her head bowed in thought, "He is a good man."

The day before the 2002 Boston Marathon, I find the young family looking at the Boston memorial sculpture amid the street crowds in Copley Square, dressed in their Sunday best: Anthony in a dark suit, Catherine and Jane in light dresses trimmed with lace. They positively sparkle with happiness in the spring sunshine.

"We’ve just been to church," Anthony says, shaking my hand with confidence, as his daughter and wife stand close beside him with lowered eyes. He reveals no hint of resentment that his wife’s name is the one carved into the marble behind him. It is easy to see that this base of family and faith will continue to carry Catherine the Great beyond disappointments—such as will happen the following day when she finishes second—and beyond the amazing success she has already experienced, to fulfill her highest dreams.

Daughters of the Land

African society has not crippled these women. Yet, has Kenya made them? They are as divided on their opinions regarding their loyalties as they are in personality.

Kiplagat is adamant that she’d run regardless of her upbringing. She has little time for politics, and is currently in the process of applying for Dutch citizenship, "The Federation in Kenya does not care for women. It is not easy to be a runner here."

Chepchumba, though she lives in Germany most of the year, has no problems with the federation or her birthplace; she has consistently rewarded them with medals and victories.

Ndereba was highly dissatisfied with her treatment before the Sydney Olympics when she was overlooked despite being the reigning Boston Marathon champion, but will persevere, believing: "They will not dare to leave me home for Athens." As for what she would do if she wasn’t running, it was never a consideration, "I always ran, and I always will. If I was Kenyan, or not."

Ten years ago very few would have believed that these Kenyan women would hold world records and titles to the world’s top marathons, and still have husbands and families. It is a change for the better, and everyone feels that the best is yet to come.

None of these women feel that the opportunities for women in Kenya are great. The success of these three is slow to trickle down. Few Kenyans, male or female, would even recognize their names or know of their success. Kiplagat is quick to add, however, "But we are doing something about it!" Those Kenyan feet are talking, and it is a woman’s voice that is being heard.

Toby Tanser is an avid sports fan and a runner in New York City. He is the author of the book Train Hard, Win Easy: The Kenyan Way.